


And You Once Said

by stardropdream



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Emotional Constipation, Multi, Pegging, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-18
Updated: 2015-05-18
Packaged: 2018-03-31 02:28:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3960976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardropdream/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Were you ever happy without me?" she asks him. </p>
<p>"I - I don't know," he says but knows the answer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And You Once Said

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jlarinda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jlarinda/gifts).



> No friendship is complete until you dedicate a pegging fic to someone. Based off a prompt from JL... it's basically what it says on the tin. Porthos/Athos/Aramis is more implied than anything else (or, well, it just isn't as explicit as the scenes with Milady), and the core of the emotional relationship is absolutely Athos/Milady, but it felt disingenuous not to tag OT3 as well. 
> 
> This was very much a "I got the idea and I just ran with it", so apologies for anything that presents a bit awkwardly, in terms of prose.

**I.**  
There’s a night, years and years ago, where she tastes of honeysuckle and wine – her lips soft and smiling, the air thick with the smell of forget-me-nots – as if he could ever forget her, as if he could ever want to forget her – and he fears, oh he fears, he fears and he longs and he desires. 

A simple thing, that desire, how it eats him up inside – even hours later when they still find pieces of old grass stuck into the folds of their clothes, when they still feel sun-drunk in the summer heat drifting through the open window. There is a desire, a _need_ , and that fear that he will corrupt, that he will destroy – that she is too good and he is too much.

And yet when he whispers the words out, a broken melody, her smile is wide and accepting, her kiss as soft as the newest, ripest fruit hanging from the pear trees along the border of the property, and she laves her tongue down his body, suckles in just the right places, and her hands drip with the oil he spills in his haste, her fingers working him open and he is drunk, drunk on the need, drunk on the smell of flowers in her hair, drunk on the feeling of her hands sure upon his skin—

There are nights in Paris when this is all he can remember, when the memory is so thick it’s all he can taste and smell. 

 

**II.**  
He remembers the first time he took himself in hand, months – almost a year – after he’d lost her, after he’d condemned her to her death. He remembers it not for the pleasure it brought him, but the painful, visceral memory of it all. 

He presses his mouth to the pendant hanging from his neck – what else can he do but this? What else can he accomplish but this jag of muscle-memory, hot and heavy in his throat like a lead weight? He kisses it, because it is the last he has of her, and takes himself in hand and strokes and strokes – keeps going even when the coil in his gut refers more to disgust than desire. He remembers her smiling lips, the way they’d pillow against his cock, the way they’d press to the corner of his mouth, the way she tasted and opened up to him—

He sees her, running through the fields, the hair in her eyes, the laughter between her teeth as he catches her – as they tumble, as he takes her apart piece by piece, fold of fabric by delicate fold. 

He thought, then, that it was paradise.

Now he wonders just how many she’s had above her or beneath her, if she found it comical the way he desired, the way he panted to her like a dog in heat, the way he’d arched beneath her hands – her fingers so decisive and knowing, when once he might have mistaken it for false confidence. The way he’d curled into himself afterwards, agonizing that he’d corrupted her with his filth and perversion. The way she’d pressed kisses to his shoulder and called him by name.

And now – he strokes himself, cock hard in his hand, because there is nothing else for him, and the tang of metal beneath the chain does nothing to dispel the scent of forget-me-not—

And he presses fingers into himself and arches up, because what else can he do but this? 

Perhaps she laughs at him from her grave. Perhaps he is there with her already. It is a mockery, a mockery of love, a mockery of trust, a mockery –

And yet he can only feel this.

 

**III.**  
The first time Porthos holds him down, the first time Aramis curls his hands into his hair and cradles him, works him open for Porthos to press into him – there is some kind of numb understanding that this is meant to be pleasure. He can hear the roar of his blood, dull and voided in his ears. He can taste the way his throat dries up and swallows down every unspoken word. 

But the pendant hangs around his neck like a noose. He cannot breathe, and Porthos is far too gentle. He is large, but it does not have that ache it’s meant to, his hips rolling as he rocks into him, cock hard and full inside of him but doing little to satisfy the dark need. Aramis’ fingers press into him gently before, preparing him, and he is far too gentle, too, his fingers far too thick and callused to be a woman’s hand, to be _her_ hand even as he tells himself that he is not envisioning a replacement, appreciating what he has because he does not deserve it.

Aramis’ mouth curls around his cock and suckles. Porthos rocks into him, hands heavy on his hips but never holding him down, only in place—

And it is not what he thinks of. He thinks of her twisting her hand lightly along the head of his cock, her other hand spreading him open, remembers her straddling him, always knowing exactly when he’s about to come, her hair in the teeth of her smile, her breasts bouncing with each movement, her stomach contracting with each heaving breath – the air thick between them with sex and flowers. 

He thought he’d corrupted her. How little did he know they were both already there. 

And now Aramis kisses him like he is worthwhile and Porthos drags his teeth down his chest like he’s trying to kiss upon his beating heart, to taste the blood of his desire – and they are too good, too present, too much and he does not deserve them. 

“You alright?” Porthos asks, because he is kind and he is gentle and he must sense it in the hitch of his breath. 

“Yes,” he says. 

Aramis hums beside him, presses a sloppy kiss to his hip. 

He closes his eyes against it – feels the dull, aching need inside of him that neither can satisfy. 

This heat is as close as he can get to her again. He knows that now. 

 

**IV.**  
He lies on the little bed he calls his own, his heart still racing from the touch of hands upon him – warm and firm, the skin of his thighs and shoulders scratched over by beards and smiles, the laughing presence of Aramis between his legs, Porthos’ hands cupping the back of his head and supporting him. 

They are both so bright and laughing, smiling at one another as they hold him down. He wishes for their surety and instead they just anchor him down as they communicate between themselves, soft eyes and softer smiles. 

When he opens his eyes again – unsure when he drops off to sleep, only knows that he does – she is sitting on the bed’s edge, looking at him, the blanket curled around her shoulders. He doesn’t jerk awake, but his shoulders tense up, rise a little, and he looks at her. In the span of one look, it feels as if it has been hours – and she is looking at him as calmly as she always does. 

“You should lock your door,” is her greeting, and Athos turns his head a little towards the door. She’d find a way in anyway, if she so wanted. 

Her hand touches his chest, and she shifts, her skirts moving around her as she moves up over him and straddles him, tugging the blanket down so that he is naked and shamed before her. The hand on his chest feels like a brand, and she moves it down over his heaving stomach. 

“Why—” he begins, and knows he should protest – but his hands cup her hips instead. 

“Seems you’ve been taken care of,” she remarks, touches at the sharp line of teeth marks against his side – left by Porthos’ smiling lips, Aramis’ biting mouth. 

A hot flush of shame coils into him suddenly and he turns his head away, breathing out sharply through his nose. She hums out thoughtfully, even that movement betraying him to her – she, who knows him too well, who knows all his guilt and all his shame, his duty and his hatred. Oh, he should hate her, truly he should—

He breathes out and he thinks she must smile in the darkness, a sardonic little curve, lacking warmth and mirth. 

“Is it better?” she asks, a woman who knows the answer and in the moonlight she actually looks soft, actually looks gentle – her eyes are on his, her mouth is quirked to that small smile that used to drive him mad. 

He sucks in a sharp breath, smells the air, remembers the taste of forget-me-not on his tongue as he pressed kisses to her jaw, to her throat, to her breasts, to her belly—

It is homecoming when she leans down and kisses him – he remembers the summer-thick days, old grass against his neck, the ripeness of pears pressed between their lips, the curl of her hair against his fingertips, the curl of her legs over his hips as she rode him out there in the field just like that, when he laid her bare just like that, tasting her from top to bottom, curling his tongue up inside of her until she made _that little sigh_ he used to love, was addicted to—

He clings to the knowledge he should hate her.

Her fingers twist up into him, a tease at first, spreading him open, feeling the remnants of Porthos’ come pressing to her knuckles. She smiles into the kiss, amusement, acidic and he groans out – both disgust and longing. 

“Was it better?” she asks again, already knows the answer and yet demands it of him—

“It wasn’t you,” is the answer, and it is both damnation and prayer – but she knows his truth, she always did know him better than anyone else, when she is but a stranger to him—

His heart aches, along with the ache of his cock, as she works him open, presses into him, hooks her fingers and spreads him open, each movement unkind and ungentle, but controlling – and that is all he ever needed, all he ever wanted—

To be controlled, to be needed, to be wanted by her, oh by her—

The chain no longer hangs around his neck, but it is there all the same, a phantom tether to her fingertips splaying out inside of him, her other hand against his chest. 

“I wonder if they’d be offended,” she says, conversationally breathless, tilting her head as she fucks into him, “that you can get so hard even after they’ve taken care of you so well.” 

The come is slick over her fingers and he groans, arches, shudders – then covers his face in his shame, sobbing out her name, begging for it now and not caring – already too far gone, already too gone so long ago, she his constant shadow, dragging him down into the dirt, dragging him back down into her grave. 

“Then again,” she says, and there’s a smile to her voice. “They aren’t me.” 

 

**V.**  
The curl of the lacquered wood should do little to excite him, should be comical, and yet all he can do is spread his legs wider in anticipation. 

Her smile is triumphant, far too knowing. She slicks it up with oil, and curls up to his side. He strains, always did strain, always did strain to reach her, to have her, to kiss her—

She presses her full mouth against his and her hair falls into his eyes before he remembers to shut them and he whines, he actually whines – full of longing, full of that void he needs full again. 

She presses her fingers into him, as she always does, spreads him with that surety of someone who knows his body better than he knows his own. There is no judgment, although the curve of her smile might be something like smugness, born from that deep understanding of power. 

He’s disgusted with himself, he always is, but once he’s open and pliant, he helps her with the scarves to tie around her thighs, around her hips, to hold the wooden phallus in place. She palms it as she would his cock and the bottom drops from his stomach and he’s panting, a dog in heat. 

He’s disgusted, of course he is, but he’s also hard and he’s also willing, and he lets her take up his legs and hook them over her shoulders as she bends down above him, presses the fake cock against him – and such a strange feeling, that smooth, foreign feeling – nothing like Porthos’ bulk, nothing like Aramis’ grace. But it’s what he needs, more than anything. 

And he begs for it, he looks up at her, mouth open, hair clinging to his forehead and he whispers, “Anne,” like he is dying, and then louder, “ _Anne._ ” 

She quirks a brow, but there is a flush to her throat, to her breasts as she presses into him, fingers flexing against his thighs. 

“Were you ever happy without me?” she asks him as she rocks her hips towards him, ungentle, harsh enough to make him gasp out – revel in that pain. Porthos and Aramis, too gentle, too kind, but she holds him down, dominates him, makes him _hers_ , just as he’s always been, just as he always will be—

“I – I don’t know,” he admits as a groan, as she bites down on his lips, has to release one of his thighs in order to keep the cock in place, stroking into him. It is hard and unrelenting, different from her hand, different from all else – and blissful, suffocating in its perfection. 

She kisses him as if she is angry, her hand closes around his cock with a fierceness that is both bruising and blissful and he sucks in a sharp breath through his nose, gasps out into her open mouth. 

He moans out her name, tastes his name on her tongue and the hand closed around his cock is firm and unrelenting, stroking him through each thrust, hard enough that he can’t think, only feel, only lay down beneath her as she sheathes herself within him. She fucks him mercilessly – and that’s all he ever wanted. 

Afterwards, he touches her hair – looks at her, breathless and panting, her breasts pressing to his chest, her leg hooked around his, the cock still nestled inside of him because the thought of being empty now makes him want to sob. He touches her hair, presses it away from her face, really looks at her. She watches him back, wary and expecting – the worst, most likely. 

“I was never happy without you,” he says, whispers it, needs for her to understand. 

“I know,” she says, and at least does not sound satisfied, only tired. She touches his arm, her nails digging into the tendons of his wrist. Branding him. He is tethered to her, always will be—

He kisses her, tastes blood and forget-me-not, and lets himself fall and fall and fall.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on my [tumblr](http://stardropdream.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
